by Harloe Rae
“I’m not gonna bite, kid. Don’t be such a chicken shit.”
That sounds familiar. I release a suspended breath. Her words, harsh as they might be, soothe the bite of unease nipping at my heels.
I spend a moment studying her, attempting to peel away the superficial layers. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like roadkill, not that it’s any of your concern.” Her gaze skips to Sutton. “Who’s this?”
“My girlfriend.” I tuck her behind me on instinct.
Her eyes remain locked on Sutton. “You Barry’s girl?”
She nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t bother with that formal shit.” My mother shakes a boney finger at her.
Sutton’s gulp is audible. “S-sorry.”
“No reason to apologize. We just aren’t too fancy in these parts. Isn’t that right, Grady?”
Her underlying meaning is a dirty film coating my skin. I scrub at the residue it leaves behind. Getting a clean break from this snake pit is a lost cause. But there’s no sense responding to her cutting remarks. My mother should know I won’t stoop. She tosses me a haughty sneer regardless.
“Such a puss,” she accuses. “Not sure what this beauty sees in you.”
Sutton gasps and clutches the fabric of my shirt in a tight fist. I grind my molars until a deafening crack pops the silence. “That’s our cue to go. Enjoy the food. Make sure to eat something.”
“Now, now, don’t be getting all pissy. I’ll behave.” The smile she plasters on is brittle. Being nice and respectful has never come natural for her.
I almost call bullshit. This woman has never asked me to stick around longer than necessary. She’s probably ramping up to beg for some cash. Bummer for her, I’m fresh out. I fold my arms and widen my stance. “Why? So we can have a friendly chat?”
My mother ignores me, her attention returning to Sutton. She pats the couch and a cloud of dust rises. “Come sit with me.” She shoots a pointed glare at me. “Be a good boy and fetch us some tea.”
I choke on the stale air. Tea? Since when does this woman drink anything except liquor? Yeah. Fucking. Right. This situation smells worse than a polluted swamp. Leaving Sutton alone with her, even for a few minutes, doesn’t sit well in my gut. A gurgling protectiveness rises up and I remain rooted in place.
A shrill whistle cracks through the dank air. “You deaf, Grady?”
My mother gets an eye roll for that. She knows damn well I’m not. The digs will get her nowhere. I cock a brow and wait her out.
She makes a shooing gesture. “Why are you just standing there? We’re thirsty.”
“Pretty sure I can handle whatever you’re about to say. There aren’t any secrets between us.” I point at my chest before gesturing at Sutton.
My mother scoffs. “Get real. We’re just gonna have a little girl talk. No boys allowed.”
I look to Sutton and she shrugs. Her lips form a few words that I’m pretty sure are meant for reassurance. I hitch a thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll be right over there. Holler if you need me.”
“We won’t.” My mother is already facing my girl, icing me out.
And with that, I’m officially dismissed. I barely hear their quiet murmurs across the room. Instead of obsessing, I busy myself with finding two clean mugs and the kettle. It’s shocking that my mother owns a teapot. A canister on the stove snags my eye. The contents smell minty, but there’s an underlying aroma I don’t trust. I won’t be letting Sutton drink a sip of this questionable shit. If my mother wants a dose, that’s her choice.
A soft giggle from the couch has me spying. Their heads are tipped close together. My mother pats Sutton’s cheek. All I can do is stare. I’ve never received that type of open affection from her in my twenty-four years. Not that I’m surprised. Sutton gets the good from everyone, even a washed up junkie.
The bubbling boil alerts me before the sharp hiss begins. I fill the cups with steaming water and drop a leafy bag into the one for my mom. With quick strides, I make my way back to them. I set the two mugs in front of them on the table.
“Thank you, Gray.” Sutton sends me a sweet smile.
I lift my lips in one of my own. “You’re welcome.”
My mom makes no move to touch the beverage. “Uh-huh, yeah. Thanks, boy.”
“Good talk?” My question is to both of them, whoever wishes to answer.
“She’s a good egg, Grady. Don’t fuck it up.” My mother beams at Sutton.
I snort at her words of wisdom. Stellar advice from mother of the year. “I plan to keep her around for always.”
Sutton dips her chin, a deep flush coloring her face. “Likewise.”
My mom sits silently, her gaze growing distant. Before I can comment, she blinks and the haze is gone. “It was nice meeting you, Sutton. Enjoy the day. You too, kid.”
“Well, I guess we’re free to go,” I joke.
My mother reaches for her pack of smokes. Sutton scrambles off the sagging cushions as if something bit her. That’s very possible in this hole. I loop an arm around her waist and lead us to the door. Mother dearest offers a weak wave with a flick of her lighter.
I almost cough from the rush of semi-fresh air as we walk outside. A comfortable silence envelops us. The last hour swirls through my mind on a rapid spiral. I’m not sure what to make of anything that occurred inside those four walls.
When we’re settled back in the truck, a deep exhale escapes me. I sag against the lumpy seat. “That was really strange.”
Sutton buckles up and turns to me. “Yeah? She seemed to be in good spirits.”
“Exactly. That never happens.”
“Huh. Guess that’s odd.”
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. A sad sort of smile curls the edges of her mouth as we pull out of the lot. “You okay, beautiful?”
“Yes. It was a bit sad, but also sweet.”
I nearly swerve off the road. “Did you just refer to my mother as sweet?”
Sutton giggles. “I did. And she is.”
“What in the world did she say to you?”
“Nothing outrageous. I think that little conversation was her version of sniffing me out. Making sure I have honorable intentions where you’re concerned.”
I can’t stop the burst of laughter that booms out of me. “That’s hilarious, Sutt. I doubt my mother gives a single shit about me or my life.”
She strokes a finger down my cheek. “She told me to take care of you.”
“That’s comforting considering she never did.”
Sutton hums. “She wasn’t shy about pointing out her list of faults.”
“Only took her several decades.” My tone is bitter, a sour taste on my tongue.
“I think she wants the best for you, in her own twisted way.”
“Why couldn’t she tell me herself?”
She looks out the window at the passing fields. “That’s on her. Maybe she’s ashamed. Years of neglect and abuse. Sometimes it’s easier to share all that with a stranger.”
I release another heavy breath. “Whatever. I just hope it wasn’t too much on you.”
Sutton grabs my free hand. “I’m happy we went. This was a good thing.”
“Maybe you need a refresher of what that word means.” I lift our connected palms, kissing her wrist.
“What’re you suggesting?”
I wink at her. “A new happy something. Anything you want.”
Her hips wiggle in a sexy shimmy. “The possibilities are endless. Let’s start with swimming.”
That gets a low chuckle out of me. “Out of everything, that’s what you want?”
She walks her fingers up my arm. “Diving off your dock.”
My chest warms at the memory of a talk we had so very long ago. We never got to jump in the lake together. Turns out her suggestion is the greatest one.
Sutton leans across the space separating us. “Oh, and by the way? I lost my bikini. Hopefully skinny dipping isn’t a deal breaker.”
Happy something #37: Having the power to be numb.
The Monday morning sun is threatening to blister my skin and it’s barely nine o’clock. I almost miss the stuffy confines of working indoors. A quick glance along the outer wall promises a large shaded area thanks to the huge oak nearby. I should hit that patch of relief after a few more sections. What I wouldn’t give to be neck-deep in the lake with Sutton again. Having her slippery body gliding over mine was the most satisfying happy something my dirty mind could ever conjure up. I palm my junk, cursing the persistent desire sizzling through me. It’s hot enough without adding more flames.
After adjusting myself, I grab another piece of flimsy plastic. I’m finishing up the siding this week. Lighting and appliances after that. I have to stain and install the trim. Finishing touches in the bathroom. That should wrap up the restoration. The end of this project is finally in sight.
I’m about to nail another portion in place when my phone begins vibrating. An unknown number flashes on the screen. I stare at my cell for a slow beat. The decision to answer wobbles my hand. With a resigned sigh, I swipe across the green line.
“Hello?”
“Is this Grady Bowen?”
“Yeah.” I’m already preparing to hang up.
“My name is Patricia. I’m a nurse at Springs Regional.”
Everything screeches to a halt and my vision tunnels to the ground. “What happened? Is Sutton hurt?”
The woman clears her throat. “You’re listed as the emergency contact for Camilla Bowen.”
“She’s my mother.” This isn’t the first time urgent care has called me about her. It probably won’t be the last.
“Camilla was rushed to the hospital a couple hours ago.” Her tone is flat, as if she’s reciting a shopping list. That jaded indifference probably comes with the job.
I rub at the grit in my eyes. “Did she overdose?” I can only imagine the stash she dug into once we left yesterday. That woman isn’t cut out for sobriety. That momentary glimmer was a glitch.
“The toxicology results aren’t completed.”
I want to tell her that’s not necessary. Anyone in this town can fill in the blanks. And if not, her health history is more than extensive. “When can I pick her up?”
They usually watch her overnight, depending on the severity.
The nurse makes a strangled noise. “This is serious, Mr. Bowen. The doctor on call has just finished initial diagnostics. It’s been recommended that you get here immediately.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“That information will be shared with you in person. I’m at liberty to tell you that her condition is considered critical.
“Can I talk to her?”
“That’s not possible. She’s unconscious, sir. I repeat, her situation is urgent.”
The salvia in my mouth turns to mud. “Uh, okay. I can be on my way shortly.”
“Very good, Mr. Bowen. We’re on the third floor. Check in at the front desk when you arrive.”
“Okay,” I repeat.
She ends the call without further instruction. I glance at the blank screen while possibilities stack up. They’ve never told me to rush over. That’s definitely new. A prickle of unease worms up my neck. I scratch at the odd sensation. It’s probably nothing. But that doesn’t stop the cement from sinking in my gut.
My steps are robotic as I walk into the house. The nurse’s words continue playing on repeat. This is more serious than an overdose. She’s knocked out. The information can only be shared in person. Hurry my ass up.
Cane is crouching in front of the rear staircase. His blond head bobs with steady movement, as if he’s listening to music. All I hear is the nurse repeating my mother’s critical state.
“Hey, I need to leave.”
He glances at me over his shoulder. Whatever he sees on my face makes him recoil. “What the hell happened to you?”
“My mom,” I mutter.
Cane nods, knowing enough about my past not to question me further. “Take care, man. I’ll get everything sorted here.”
“Thanks.” I sound drained, even to my own ears. The battle with my mother is exhausting and gruesome. I barely dredge up the willpower to drag my ass outside.
The drive to the hospital whizzes by in a blur of static. It’s only thanks to some miracle that I don’t end up in a ditch. I’m not sure how my truck gets parked. The bright blue sky has been replaced with gloomy clouds. How fucking fitting.
I hold onto these insignificant details, relying on them to push me onward. My boots echo on the scuffed linoleum as I enter the emergency room. A security guard waves me in the direction to a bank of elevators. When I get out on the third floor, another lobby greets me. A woman smiles from her spot behind a cluttered desk.
“May I help you find something?”
I blow out a stream of foul air. “I’m looking for Camilla Bowen. She was checked in earlier.”
The woman’s eyes grow saucer-wide. “Uh, yes. She’s in 313. Very last door on the left.” She lifts an unsteady finger toward a narrow hall.
I follow the gesture, a sick intuition twisting inside of me. “Thank you.”
My stride is comparable to a snail as I edge down the long walkway. I watch the numbers increase with nausea churning faster in my stomach. It takes several minutes to reach the correct room. Those three bold digits mock me. What waits for me beyond this barrier? Only one way to see.
I push the door open with a cautious hand. The space is cloaked in darkness, shades drawn and lights off. Antiseptic and bleach suffocate me. I suppose this sterile stench beats the smell of death. My feet shove forward on their own. The rest of me is trying to process what I’m seeing. I pause halfway to the bed.
My mother looks so peaceful, frozen in sleep. Only the soft rise and fall of her chest alerts me that she’s still alive. That slow rhythm is cathartic. Relief floods out of me in a cascade and my knees threaten to buckle. I stumble to the nearby chair, dragging it to her side. An array of machines beep and buzz. Tubes are taped along her right arm. There are colorful wires sprouting out from the top of her gown. So much is happening, yet nothing at all.
I grab her left hand and suck in a sharp breath. Her skin is ice cold. I press her freezing palm between both of mine. We’ve been in this situation before. The similarities aren’t lost on me. But the differences are blaring louder than a foghorn. She’s hardly moving. The ashen hue of her complexion is more pronounced. Her cheekbones jut out to a crude degree. Purple bruising is forming along her jaw. An eerie chill slithers across my scalp. I leave my eyes trained on her still form, waiting for more signs of life.
Someone knocks on the door behind me. I turn and find a man wearing blue scrubs poking his head inside. He’s older than me by at least ten years. The way he steps into the room speaks of his authority.
“Mr. Bowen?”
I squint at him. Being called Mr. Bowen is beginning to skeeve me out. That doesn’t mean I’ll correct him. I’ll take an upper hand if he’s passing them out. “That’s me.”
He moves closer with an outstretched hand. “I’m Doctor Potter, one of the physicians supervising this floor. You can call me Miles. I’m responsible for your mother’s care while she’s with us.”
“You’re the one who ran all her tests?”
Miles shifts to the end of her bed. “I did.”
I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. “And?”
“May I be blunt?”
“Please,” I mutter.
He glances at her before sliding his gaze to me. “Your mother’s health is very poor.”
“No shit, doc. I’m well aware of her addictions. Tell me something new.”
“I’m talking about more than her bad habits.”
A cramp attacks my muscles. “Such as?”
Miles leans against the mattress, facing me dead on. “She’s suffered from a massive stroke. From what I can tell, there’s irreversible damage to her heart and lungs.
Her scans and X-rays are a mess. There’s almost no brain activity. To break it down in the simplest terms, your mother’s body gave up fighting.”
I hear his explanation, but not really. My ears are packed with cotton. There’s a low thrum pounding into my temples. Rancid bile crawls up my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut and force the vomit down. “But she’s gonna wake up, right? I can take her home tomorrow?”
His sigh is a sinking ship. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Bowen. We’re doing our best to keep her stable, but she’s unresponsive to treatments. She hasn’t regained consciousness since being admitted. Her system is in shutdown mode. The machines are keeping her alive.”
“So, she’s dying?” The crack in my voice tears straight through me. I don’t bother hiding my wince.
“Yes, Mr. Bowen. I’m very sorry.”
I don’t look up to find the matching sympathy in his eyes. The death sentence is a sledgehammer to my ribs. The reflex to wrap an arm around my torso rattles the shattering bones. “What happens next?”
Miles straightens off the bed, swiping at his tablet. “That’s entirely up to you. She’s not in pain. We’ll continue measuring her vitals as needed. Usually we recommend spending time with her, say goodbye and make your peace. We have a chapel on site if you’d like to pray or talk with a minister. There are a few local grief groups that meet regularly.”
His suggestions bounce off the bulletproof wall I’ve slammed down. “That won’t be necessary.”
The silence stretches a mile long. I’m about ready to leap from my seat when the doctor takes a step toward me. “When you’re ready, we can take her off life support.”
Is anyone ever ready for that? What a fucked up control system. I pinch the bridge of my stinging nose. “Just like that?”
“Again, I’m sorry there isn’t more we can do. Your mother was very sick, Mr. Bowen.”
Was.
He’s already talking about her in the past tense. Fuck. Pressure roars behind my clenched eyelids. None of this should be a surprise. She never took care of herself. If I’m being honest, she was hellbent on doing everything possible to end her life prematurely. All the drugs and booze were bound to catch up with her.